Snatched Read Free Page B

live-in partner to the Director of the Hulliborn, and if he quit early she wanted something to replace that rank and cachet: a knighthood would suit very nicely. Julia did not visualize their future social ranking as dependent solely upon her ownership of the Spud-O’-My-Life kiosk, or even upon a chain of kiosks, if things took off. But a knighthood for George, possibly marriage, and so, Lady Lepage, renowned head of a food combine – that might add up to something decently eminent.
    And so, because George Lepage for most of his time did want to hang on to Julia, and because he had a soft spot for the Hulliborn, its good repute was doubly vital to him. The JASS exhibition seemed the best way on offer to lift its rating and impress those who gave out gongs. He must do all he could to further Vince Simberdy’s campaign –
snatch
all helpful openings, in Vince’s term – particularly as very destructive, knowledgeable flak could start flying any day about Quentin Youde’s expensive ‘El Greco’ deal, which would have to be diverted and offset. So far, the insurers and auditors had the paintings as assets slightly above the price the Hulliborn paid, but some troublesome questions had begun to circulate.
    Now, Lepage went ahead, descending at a rush the iron spiral staircase from the Octagon Room level to the public Reception area. He was aware of Ursula and Jervis clattering after him, and perhaps a couple of others from the Hebdomadal following them. As he reached the bottom and stood gazing about, a chill column of water from Ursula’s flask speared down alongside the spiral’s central pillar and struck him on the head with a spattering thump, like that sounding cataract in some poem, and then slipped down inside his collar, went the length of his spine, and continued on between his buttocks as if a new strain of big, fast-moving slug wanted to show off its pace and dauntlessness.
    Dripping moderately, he made his way across Reception and towards Coins. As Jervis had suggested, this was where most of the noise originated. Lepage thought he could distinguish five kinds of sound. There were angry men’s voices, angry women’s voices, and frightened men’s voices, these latter presumably Hamilton’s and some of the other porters’. He heard fierce rattling of metalwork, which must be visitors trying to break down the Secure Room grille to get at those inside, plus the deep, possibly hysterical wailing of a woman. He went past the
Serenity
nude, on through the Raybould Gallery, where the ‘El Grecos’, with their bet-hedging caption sheets bravely hung, and then took the short cut via Early Industrial.
    Suddenly, some distance ahead of him, he saw the tall, skinny figure of a man crossing the arched entrance to Coins and seemingly making his way towards the museum’s main exit. At the same time, from a few steps behind him, came a brief, anxious gasp. Ursula must also have seen this man and recognized him as Falldew. He was dressed in his own modern-day clothes now, not medieval costume, and seemed properly zipped up. Although he appeared to be taking his time, ambling in the style of most museum visitors, he actually managed swift, long-legged progress. It looked as though he wanted to guard against getting conspicuous by hurrying, but planned to be out and clear very fast, just the same. Falldew would know all the odd corners of the Hulliborn, and must have used somewhere hidden away to change his gear. So, had Simberdy’s reported sightings been correct? ‘Neville,’ Lepage called. ‘Neville Falldew, please wait.’
    For half a second, Neville paused and looked back. Deeply unwise. He stood framed by the entrance to Coins and as he turned, his features were momentarily fully on view to the people in there. It seemed enough, although Falldew’s face was so thin that at times it appeared to be nothing but profile. The wailing from